


volcanic

by YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anger, Body Modification, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will Graham, Frottage, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Masturbation, Murder Fantasy, Murder Kink, Pain, Prison, Sadism, Season/Series 02, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Violence, Teeth, Will Graham Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 07:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18773866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: Doing bad things to bad people feels good, and Will wants to feel good.





	volcanic

There is silence manmade – the clattering whir of the air conditioning that rattles and croaks like a stage four lung cancer patient. The soft tick and tock of the clock that he can't see, but can hear; it's a loud thing, seems taunting almost. _Hah, another second in here. Hah, another. A whole minute has gone by, do you feel yourself getting older?_

Will sits on his cot and stares outwards. His neighbor's cell is empty. The air is empty, the space behind his eyes is empty. Until it is not, until something shifts and prowls from the shadows, horned and fanged, and white-hot with anger.

His fingers curl, his nostrils flare; the only giveaway.

It is the burden of he who carries the vendetta – doing bad things to bad people feels good. Here, in this cell, he has looked into the eyes of the very Devil, found him smiling and prancing on a grave of Will's own making. His dance keeps time to the clock, to the rattling air.

He drags in a breath, slow, tilts his head up. Closes his eyes until only a slip of iris remains. His lashes form bars in his vision, and between the slips of light prowls a monster. Will's anger burns, rises, slides down his spine with nails and sharp canines ready to split open skin.

He thinks of Hannibal's smile. His teeth.

His fingers flex. And settle.

He would not be smiling by the time Will was through. Will's knuckles split and ache, it is so easy to remember how it feels to throw a punch, to crack cheekbones and bruise jaws, from tussles in his youth – easy to overlay bullies and brazen teens with laughs too loud, with Hannibal's face. With his shoulders, ripped apart. Will could take his skin like that of a fish, fillet and feed him his own belly.

He would take Hannibal's hands. They are delicate, despite everything, graceful and impeccably formed. Bulging with veins and strong tendons, powerful as the rest of him. His wrists, though, are fragile. Dainty, almost. Easy to snap beneath a heel. He would flatten the arch of his foot over the broken bones, feel them grind, and grin when Hannibal tried not to make a sound.

The air conditioning coughs, then dies. The clock laughs its little tune and keeps on a-tickin'.

He wonders if Hannibal is laughing, wherever he is. Lines his teeth up and ruts the edges together like tectonic plates when he imagines it – imagines Hannibal smiling into his wine glass, happy as a clam at high tide, so utterly pleased with himself. And Will hates how easily it feels like a victory for him, too – maybe through Hannibal's eyes, maybe because despite it all, Will does have a deeper understanding of himself, by proxy. Maybe it's one he likes.

Maybe -.

Maybe doing bad things to a bad man would feel so, so _good_.

His fingers curl up tight, nails to his palms, shoulders rolling in a deliberate motion to get them to lower. He mustn't scare the sheep, after all. The concrete wall is cold at the back of his head, his lower back aching from his slouch, his knees spread shoulder-width apart.

He opens his eyes, tilts them up. Imagines the slow circle of an overhead fan, the hum of it, the little jangling clicks of the hanging cords that determine its speed moving with it. The wind moves, and all the little creatures dance with it.

He lifts his hand, spreads his fingers out so that the light runs in shafts down the side of his face. Bars, bars, everywhere. He thinks of putting Hannibal behind bars, wonders if he would sit like this, retreat to within himself and think and think – if he would think of Will. Of course he would – he owes Will that much.

He does not drop his hand, but lowers it slowly. Sighs and slouches further until his jumpsuit rucks up, revealing his ankles, the lower half of his calves and shins. Bunches to uncomfortable creases around his thighs, his hips. He shifts his weight and grunts, kicks his heels up and flattens to his back on the prison cot.

He stares, upwards. Paper thin, he was paper thin before coming here, and now with medicine – _finally,_ proper care and medicine – he is steel and gold, shimmering like the fangs of something monstrous. Horned, velveteen like the coating of antlers. He thinks of Cassie Boyle and doesn't want to find likeness in himself, but the similarities come – split open, exposed and naked in a field. He is there to gawk at, to study, to examine. He mustn't bite the sheep, for the farmer will come eventually, and show him the way out.

He sighs, pressing his lips together. Swallows, harshly, and his throat aches. Still, from the tube, the invasion of plastic that he can taste, now, always. He thinks of Hannibal smiling, pulling Will's forehead back – he tilts his chin up, mimicking – pushing his hair from his face – his hand twitches, rises, doing the same – and stretching his lips, his teeth, hooking in his mouth to make room.

Bruising, inside. Not a scratch on the outside – meticulous to the last. Will's nails dig into his hair and he snarls, low and loud, and jerks on his hair, imagines taking Hannibal's fingers and pulling them until they snap out of joint.

He smiles.

His hands spread out, both landing on his thighs now. Wide, and warm. He thinks of digging his thumbs into the corners of Hannibal's mouth. Imagines putting him on his knees and threading fishing line through hooks that he'll set at the corners, and pull until he bleeds. So he can see his teeth, see his tongue. Will imagines wrapping thin wire between his molars. Imagines slipping his fingers over his gums, his tongue, as Hannibal fights him, bucks hard enough that the wires cut and bleed.

Imagines holding Hannibal, at the back of his neck, one hand pressed to his nose. Crushing, until his nose buckles and sags. Until he's bleeding there, too.

Imagines gouging his eyes out with his bare hands.

 _No_. Too far. Hannibal needs to see everything Will can do, what he's capable of. The curious cat has gambled his last life in the jaws of the wolf. When Will gets out of here – and he will, he can, if he plays his cards right – he'll chase that pretty kitty cat and gut him alive.

He thinks of tugging Hannibal's jaws apart, until they crack. Maybe he'll be able to see what a cannibal's throat looks like from the inside – will it be bruised, and enflamed, like Will's? Will he see Red Riding Hood's fingers trying to claw herself free?

Oh, no. This kitty knows better. Knows he should kill, before he eats.

Will shivers, growling softly, jaw clenching, throat flexing. Maybe Abigail is inside him, trying to get out of his stomach. He feels heavy, suddenly, weighted down by time and sin and want. He could have helped her, cared for her, hurt her, killed her.

He sucks in a breath. His fingers flex, and settle.

He takes Hannibal's teeth, in his mind. Cats that scratch the carpet get declawed. Dogs that bite too much get their canines removed. Dock him, shave him, make him tremble at being so exposed and weak. Will shows his teeth to nothing and the clock laughs at him.

Righteous fury bubbles up in him, trapped as a snarl, encased in his teeth. His teeth are the bars wherein an animal paces, howling, pawing at the gates of its enclosure. Doing bad things to bad people feels good, and Will wants to feel _good_.

He closes his eyes, sucks in another breath, rubs his hand tender and warm along the hard line of his cock. Imagines pushing it through Hannibal's lips, bruised and broken apart from Will's fists. Imagines his teeth, softened to butter, saliva slicking the way. Imagines the rattle and choke of Hannibal's throat around him as Will makes him suffocate. He'd sit on him, deprive his lungs of air, weigh him down so he cannot move and cannot breathe.

Make him choke, make him cry. Make him flutter and tremble as Will did when the world was so cruel and he was just a man made of paper. Tear him the fuck apart and leave the pieces for no one to find – Will would keep the biggest piece for himself, so no matter how hard they tried, Humpty Dumpty would always be broken, always have a piece of him missing.

He'll eat it. Raw, if he has to.

Imagines what heart tastes like, and salivates, pressing down with the heel of his hand, arching up to the pressure. The wrath burns him on the inside, tempered like steel on a forge, molded to the shape of a claw, an antler, growing and growing. He is speared, down his spine, and hooked. He gasps and his own chest is brittle now, crackling like earth above magma – he will split, and bow, and bend, and break. He is molten and hot with anger and he is ready to erupt and destroy all in his path.

Footsteps break the silence. Will doesn't stop.

He knows this silence – the anticipatorily held breath of prey when the mountain lion stalks past, the jungle growing still as the jaguar prowls by. Imagines sun-dappled coats of sand and stone, fine muscle flexing, every part of that animal made to kill.

Of course. How could he have not seen it before?

He unzips the fly of his jumpsuit, wraps his fingers around his cock and snarls at the feeling. His hand is too hard, too dry. He smears precum on his palm and licks it clean as the footsteps come to a halt outside his cell.

He tilts his head, backwards, a marionet with the strings too slack, and meets the eyes of a monster.

The clock stops laughing. There's nothing funny in the passage of time, now, for it has gone utterly still. Monumental and weightless, Hannibal stares at him, and there's a darkness in his eyes that reflects the heart of a volcano. He is quiet, proper and pristine.

Will zips himself back up, and stares without blinking.

Hannibal's head tilts, just a fraction. "What were you thinking about?"

Will shouldn't answer. "What do you do with the teeth?" he whispers. Hannibal blinks, his throat sags and flexes. Will's fingers do the same, warm and ready. They would fit, he thinks, perfectly between jugular and carotid. Dig, and split, until Hannibal bled himself dry at Will's altar. "You can't eat them. Or maybe you can. Make them into jelly? Butter?"

"Perhaps jewelry," Hannibal replies. "Or repurpose them for fishing."

Will snarls at him.

Hannibal's lips twitch, fighting a smile. Will wants to tear his mouth apart until he's always smiling, Joker-like, split him open and raw and taste the innards of his cheeks. He rolls onto his side, then his stomach, growls when his cock ruts against the thin padding between body and metal bedframe. He thinks of pushing Hannibal through it, raking him open on the wires, sheared and split.

"I'd grind yours into a powder," he whispers. Hannibal's head tilts a little further, and his chin lifts. The air conditioning crackles and coughs, fighting the heat of Will, but he will not be beaten twice – "Put them in my coffee. Or line my gums with them, like cocaine."

"Addictive substances, both," Hannibal murmurs. He is close to the bars, close enough that if Will were against them too, he could lunge.

"You put yourself in my head," Will says. "You won't let me quit. Am I addicted, or dependent, or both?"

"Neither, I think," Hannibal says, and Will knows that's a Goddamn fucking lie. He shoves himself from the cot with another snarl, lunges for the bars. Hannibal steps back, but more out of surprise, Will thinks, than genuine fear – and he doesn't want Will's dirty hand touching his clothes. Will thinks of smearing himself all over Hannibal's nice suits – blood, come, sweat, piss. Mark this cat as his kill and fight whoever gets in his way.

He curls his hands around the bars, drags them down slowly, and grins between them. "Come closer," he purrs, and wonders if the spider ever sounded so sweet to the fly. Hannibal swallows, his fingers curling where one rests on his stomach, arm bent to hold up his coat. The other, at his side, twitches, pads of his fingertips rubbing together.

"I came to tell you," Hannibal says softly, "you're being released. Cleared of all charges."

Will smiles. "Now who's addicted, Doctor Lecter?"

Hannibal doesn't deny it. Nor does he take the bait. He does, however, step closer, pulled from his belly as though magnetized – he must be starving, having to lay low while Will was in chains.

His hand lifts. Will doesn't flinch – he meets his eyes steadily as Hannibal gently, so gently, touches his scruffy jaw. His thumb presses to Will's upper lip, coaxes it up to reveal his canines. Drags, soft as sin, to the corner of Will's mouth.

Will bites – turns his head and snaps his teeth together hard, trapping Hannibal's thumb at the knuckle. Hannibal doesn't flinch, but the corners of his eyes get tight. It could be a smile, could be a reaction to pain. Will growls, locks his jaws like a fighting dog, wants to jerk his head and snap the neck of his prey.

He doesn't. Hannibal's fingers curl beneath his chin and Will releases, trembling, gasping as Hannibal lifts his head so their eyes meet again.

He breathes in, deeply. Will wonders if he smells like magma. Hannibal's eyes burn and the air conditioning doesn't stand a damn chance.

"What do you do with the teeth?" he whispers.

"I discard them," Hannibal replies. "They are of no use to me."

Will hums, and drops his gaze to Hannibal's throat. "I'll make a collar of yours," he says. "Let them hang around your neck, when I take them. So you can remember what they felt like when they were still 'of use' to you."

Hannibal blinks. His hand drops.

He smiles, wide, wide, showing Will those dangerous teeth, angled and sharp. Will growls at him and flexes his fingers around the bars of his cage. "You are a savage thing," he whispers, and Will grins, because Hannibal has no fucking idea. "Tell me." He steps closer, until Will straightens. "What other parts of me will you take?"

"By the end, everything," Will replies. Hannibal's dark eyes flash, his lips parting around a soft exhale. He's warm, Will aches and bubbles and wants to spit fire. "It's the ultimate act of dominance, isn't it? Eating your kill."

"Is that what you want, Will?" Hannibal whispers. "To dominate me?"

Will blinks. Hisses, "I have the only right to."

"Then…" Hannibal touches him again, reaches forward and brushes his hand over the stain Will's cock has left on the inside of his jumpsuit. Will's lashes flutter, and he growls, jaw bulging as he presses it against the cool bars of his cage, "I suppose we will see each other very soon."

Will's hand snaps down, wraps around Hannibal's. Forces his touch harder to his erection. Hannibal shivers – Will didn't know he had it in him, perhaps Hannibal can feel how warm he is, too – and flattens his hand, letting Will grind against it.

Will drags his free hand down the bars, nails creating a low, subtle shriek. He presses close to the bars, shoulders to them, marvels at how they don't vibrate from the force of his heartbeat. "By the time I'm done," he promises, "you'll wish you'd killed me when you had the chance."

"Oh, Will," Hannibal breathes, and curls his fingers, cups Will's cock and squeezes, making Will gasp, panting. They're close enough to touch, forehead to forehead, temptingly close. "I would never deprive myself of witnessing you, in all your magnificence."

Will snarls.

"Do as you wish, darling," Hannibal coaxes, and smiles wide. "Let me paint your teeth."

Will stiffens, trembles, and digs his nails into Hannibal's wrist as he comes, rutting hot and wet against Hannibal's palm. The fabric chafes, friction terrible and raw, and Hannibal's nostrils flare as Will comes, lashes fluttering at the scent of it.

Hannibal pulls his hand away, when Will lets him. He doesn't let himself sag, doesn't let his knees buckle – can't afford to show weakness, right now. Hannibal's gaze is like a tug on his strings, keeping him upright.

Hannibal lifts his hand, and though it is not stained, it is damp, and he rubs his thumb beneath his nose, down over his upper lip, and breathes in deeply again. Seems hungry, ravenous, cheeks flushed and eyes suddenly so bright.

"I want to be the last thing you ever see," Will says.

Hannibal smiles, at that. "I'll see you when you're released, Will," he murmurs, and takes a step back, straightening the cuff of his sleeve where Will's grip ruffled and wrinkled it. Will smiles, off-kilter and wide enough to hurt. He watches Hannibal walk away, waits until his footsteps fade, and the air conditioning unit sputters its last, and dies again.

The clock comes back, but is not laughing. Now it sounds like applause.


End file.
